


So Collectible (Why Not Collect Them All?)

by emmaliza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (sort of), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anonymous Sex, Dreams and Nightmares, F/F, Masks, Or Was It A Dream?, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Seduction, Sexual Tension, Sibling Incest, Tattoos & Piercings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-24 21:34:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14962605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: Sansa has always loved her pretty things. Her wardrobe is full of of satins and silks, her vanity littered with costume jewellery. Arya has always made fun of her for it, ever the tomboy, all scraped knees and messy hair. She never looked right in Sansa's room.But now, in her silver and leather, Arya issopretty. How could Sansa ever stay away?





	So Collectible (Why Not Collect Them All?)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the asoiaf rarepairs prompt: "Sansa x Arya: Sansa has always collected beautiful things when her sister returns from university abroad Sansa wants to add her to the collection." Title comes from "Pretty Things" by Take That.

Smoke in her lungs, lights so dim she can't see, and Sansa is starting to sway on her feet. Arya always hung with a hipper crowd than her. Rum and coke she sips, although she hardly tastes it, too busy staring into the crowd and wallowing in her guilt, afraid of what she's looking for. She didn't even know Arya knew this many people.

She hasn't seen much of Arya in the last three years, as one would expect when Arya decided to go to uni in Italy for some reason. They were never close as girls, and while she could see on the other end of some grainy Skype calls that Arya was indeed turning into a woman, there was never any reason to think twice about it. Not until she saw her sister in the flesh.

And oh, what flesh.

Sansa's cheeks colour pink, and she gulps her drink greedily. She does not know why she was invited. She does not know Arya's friends and Arya's friends don't know her; she can see them glance at her sometimes, wondering who she is. That should not be a relief. Sansa knows she does not fit in; her, with her long braids and pink skirt and skin that would never even dream of being touched with a piercing or tattoo. She has always been the good girl, the little lady, the princess, and Arya was wild, reckless, boyish. Sansa remembers rolling her eyes at years of scrapes and bruises from when Arya was off playing with the boys, climbing trees and falling out of them, and Sansa thought she would never be so foolish.

Arya is still wild and reckless, but she's all grown now. Her hair cropped short, her brow and tongue and navel all pierced, her wardrobe leather and black. Mum and Dad almost had a heart attack when they saw. But Sansa, oh, it drove her wild.

 _This is not happening to me,_ she tells herself, heart thumping against her ribs. _Arya grew into a beautiful girl, so what? There's not something wrong with me. I'm not sick._

Part of her wonders if this is not where it was headed all along: that all their squabbling was only ever going to lead them here. But she cannot let herself think that.

Out of the crowd emerges a figure, and Sansa has been so used to being ignored all night it takes her a moment to realise it's coming for her. Short, and clearly female, body abounding in womanly curves. Clad in a black romper with ripped legs, rough and ready and yet graceful, beautiful. Upon the face, a mask from an authentic Masquerade held in place with one hand, black and red feathers flowing from golden glitter. Sansa knows that mask by now, has seen it shared over the dining table while Arya spills her stories, her pretty pink pierced tongue curling round foreign words.

 _Arya, what are you doing,_ she means to ask, but as her sister comes into her space her spare hand shushes Sansa. So unlike their years of childish fights, Sansa obeys. On the half a face uncovered, a smirk.

Fingers, soft, warm, small curl around Sansa's wrist. “Come.” She hardly bothers to disguise her voice.

* * *

They are on the dance floor. The mask stays in place, held tight and Sansa can't quite see the look in Arya's eye when she can't keep her eyes off her chest, hidden beneath black lace clinging tight. She does not know what is happening. Perhaps this is all a prank, perhaps Arya truly doesn't think Sansa knows who she is, but Sansa knows there's no escaping now.

They dance fast and slow and fast and slow, but in the haze and the smoke, it all blends together. They could have been here for seconds or days and she would be no wiser. Arya spins around and Sansa eyes the pristine white wolf's head tattooed on the back of her neck. She wants to lick it. Arya moves back and Sansa's hands find her hips, pulling her close. A gasp. Sansa can't help but smile to herself. Perhaps this shan't all go one way.

Slowly, Arya tilts her head up. The mask is still in the way, and Sansa is relieved. _I can say I never knew it was her,_ says the warmth between her legs. _Who can prove me wrong?_

Her fingers cup Arya's jaw gently. God, the skin is so soft. A shiver. When their lips meet, it is tiny, innocent, and forever.

There's giggles and claps from the crowd around them, but no horror, no shock, no outrage. _They don't know who I am,_ thinks Sansa, and it shouldn't make her smug.

Arya pulls away, her breath short, and Sansa thinks she sees a blush beneath that mask. She bites her lip. Before either of them can think better of it, she slides a finger beneath the black leather choker her sister wears – a collar in all but name, really. “Come.” If they're doing this, then they are.

* * *

This room could be anyone's, and hence remains infused with a relaxing sense of anonymity. The lights stay off, all the better to maintain the illusion that they are not who they are. They share a few kisses on their way to the bed, but the mask is too cumbersome to let them get too deep, too dirty.

Arya perches on the edge of the bed, a smirk beneath her black feathers. _I need to see her,_ thinks Sansa, and she pulls down on of the straps of her sister's dress. _Bloody rompers,_ she thinks, but a part of her is pleased to be given the excuse to get Arya naked, even if she knows it's not a good idea. None of this is a good idea.

The top falls down and Sansa bites her lip when she sees no bra underneath, just Arya's breasts, not too big but full and round and pristine white with shell pink nipples, oh so biteable looking. Arya grins at her, kicking the romper away messily, left clad in tall leather boots and the mask and collar. _God help me_.

Sansa groans when she sees more tattoos inked on her sister's pretty skin, a black cat slinking across her left hip, practically begging to be petted. _Oh, what would our mother think._ Sansa falls to her knees without warning, burgundy carpet scraping her skin, and brazenly pushes Arya's thighs apart, leaning in between them and inhaling the scent, sweet and salty, like candy on a summer beach.

She thinks she could simply sit here forever, clinging to Arya's body and yet never being brave enough to take it how she wishes, but Arya has never been patient. She kicks Sansa, gently, and Sansa smothers a laugh, too reminded of the way things used to be. She darts her tongue out and flicks it across Arya's pink folds, finds her wet as water. Her heart pounds. Arya has been waiting for this. Perhaps they've both been waiting for this for years.

Sansa's tongue is shy at first: she's never done this before, isn't quite sure how to go about it. Slowly, she traces up and down and tries to pay attention, to observe what it is that makes Arya gasp. She circles the nub up at the top and Arya hisses out a curse, then she traces her tongue further up, flicking it against the cold silver embedded in her sister's navel. Arya giggles at that, almost childish, and Sansa smiles against the skin before returning to what she was doing earlier.

The kisses she presses against Arya's cunt grow messier, lewder, everything she can't get from her sister's mouth with that mask in place. Her fingers find the tattoo on Arya's hip and stroke along the curves there, making Arya gasp and buck beneath her mouth. Sansa grins to herself. _Sensitive,_ she thinks, like she's discovered a secret. She moans as she opens her mouth wider and lets her tongue slip inside Arya's entrance, drinking in the overwhelming taste.

Sansa has always loved her pretty things. Her wardrobe is full of of satins and silks, her vanity littered with costume jewellery. Arya has always made fun of her for it, ever the tomboy, all scraped knees and messy hair. She never looked right in Sansa's room.

But now, in her silver and leather, Arya is _so_ pretty. How could Sansa ever stay away?

Arya throws her head back, legs splaying wider as Sansa starts to fuck her with her tongue, rocking back shamelessly. “Ah, yes,” she says as she slides toward the edge, trembling so much a feather falls from the mask and onto Sansa's shoulder. It makes her giggle, just as Arya's legs clench around her neck again. “Deeper.”

Sansa moans, her hands reaching round, nails digging into the flesh of Arya's rear. She doesn't need to be told twice. She pushes her tongue in as deep as she can go, until she's panting, gasping, she can hardly breathe but she wants it, needs it: she wishes she too could be a part of her sister's body, as permanent as one of those tattoos. Arya moans desperately, and when her fingers make their way down to rub at her own clit while Sansa works, Sansa tries her utmost to kiss them with her upper lip. They're sticky, and taste faintly of vodka. She closes her eyes so cannot see if the mask is gone.

“Ah, ah, Sansa!” Arya cries out as she hurtles into her orgasm. Sansa should stop. She said she could only do this if they were pretending they didn't know who each other were, and she knows that Arya knows now. But at the same time, it's far too late to stop, and so she just keeps fucking her little sister, her perfect, precious little sister with her mouth, until Arya screams and spasms and then collapses. Sansa lets the juices flow into her mouth: swimming in it, and maybe drowning in it.

* * *

She's in the same foreign bedroom, enveloped by dark, but now tucked neatly in bed beneath a white duvet. She frowns. _Was it a dream?_ Is that relief, or disappointment? She looks around, and sees no sign of Arya, but that doesn't prove it wasn't real. If it were, they likely wouldn't talk about it after. They did not talk about it during.

It seems she slept on her back, with her legs spread wide, positively obscene. It makes her flush, somehow. Her cunt still aches and pulses with need, and Sansa gives an irritated sigh. _She could have returned the favour,_ she thinks. Oh, how she's dreamed of that pierced tongue inside her.

She rolls on her side, hoping to quieten the craving. But then she comes face to face with something, that mask, black feathers blending into the night but the red ones, rich as blood and hot as fire, they stand out.

Sansa bites her lip and without thinking pushes her hand up her party dress, reaching into her knickers and then just rubbing, without a hint of finesse, just a desperate, gnawing compulsion to relieve herself of this sinful lust. She pants and moans and writhes as she stares at that mask, and Arya might be long gone but Sansa can imagine her chuckling, whispering: _that's it Sansa, come for me. So pretty when you come. Always so pretty, weren't you?_

Sansa works herself open until she spends into a stranger's sheets, looking into those black eyes.

 


End file.
